chasing paper

'I was fully optimistic. Fully out of character.'

Hi — I’m the author, journalist, producer, and podcast creator Danyel Smith. SHINE BRIGHT HQ is where I overshare about music, culture, sports, and writing. Folks really loved this recent Ronnie Spector edition. And this one, too, about folks killing other folks’ joy. A full Shine Bright HQ archive is here. Me and SZA in Malibu? Right here. You and your fellow subscribers also really like this 10+ hour instrumental playlist, and this tear-stained st. bart's-scented love letter. Right now is a positively lovely time to

I'm being hard on myself. I am being hard on my work.

I've been working hard to have a lot of work because in these times, when it seems like the bad guys are always winning, money seems like a hiding place or escape route or spot in the sun.

I know because I've been chasing paper since forever. Or at least since I was 14. It's what survivors do — hoping always to become thrivers. First it was money to pay for my parochial high school education and just some sense of steadiness amid a relentlessly chaotic adolescence. Then it was the unsuccessful search for finding money to graduate from college in Northern California. And then it was having multiple jobs, always feeling like I needed another paycheck¹, in order to pay rent and have groceries and fun and transportation around Oakland and San Francisco — and be the big sister.

My sister and I were young adults living as roommates in our early twenties, and she was working as hard as I was — usually at her own two jobs. But being the oldest carries a different type of responsibility. When I started writing professionally, I was interning for free. And then I began freelancing, for a dime a word. I recall writing 1,500 words about a Natalie Cole concert and getting paid $150. This was just as the eighties were turning into the nineties, and $150 was near a fifth of the rent my sis and I were paying. It seemed like I could figure out some math to make these words fund a life.

I got married in my early twenties. It was a courthouse wedding — picture me in an ivory skirt set and Swiss dot tights. Picture me a true believer in our union. I made the the reception invites myself in the “desktop publishing” area of a CopyMat that had been a previous employer. I personalized each pice of gray textured card stock with wisps of blue and green watercolor. I was fully optimistic. Fully out of character. This was forever.

I was working retail at the time, and as far as writing, I’d worked my way up to 30 or 40 cents a word at some places. And then SPIN magazine paid me a dollar a word for 800 words. It became a regular column, which the SPIN staff named Dreaming America², so I could count on $800 each month. From writing. I was freelancing other places, hustling to write in still more places, and still ringing up Clinique at Saks Fifth Avenue for time-and-a-half on Sundays. The champagne tastes I have today come from my three years at Saks. The people at the San Francisco store didn’t mock my writing dreams, and as one lady told me when we were folding Hanro on the lingerie floor. “It’s not a dream is it, if there’s stuff out there with your name on it.”

Women had to wear panty hose or tights on the floor back then and when mine had runs she would just open a random pack of Christian Dior Ultra Sheer and hand them to me. I thought she was a hundred years old. She was probably 60. She rolled her eyes each time I said the word, “husband.”

My husband was a gifted photographer with creative clients. He also worked nights at a photography studio that specialized in cross-processing film. This was back when that kind of technique was done by hand. Our place in East Oakland was airy and quirky. We had sparkly lights on a banister. He had a tiny darkroom. I had a narrow (windowless) office. The thing is, once I got in business with SPIN, I could pay almost our entire rent with just the SPIN check. I didn’t, but I could. And that ability was a wedge.

I was so happy, so pleased with myself. I felt, for a moment, secure. I write often here about the happiness of women, the killing of joy, and in retrospect I know that my survivor energy was part of my allure. My talent was sexy, sure. As was my meaty body, big smile, and desperation-tinged devotion. But my insecurity, my dissatisfaction with self, my almost constant worry about falling into a pit of poverty or worse — this was an alluring part of my package. The girl who wants to be? She’s cool as hell. The girl who is? Can go there.

That first big check was the beginning of the end of my first marriage.

And I will say that it had been kind of an amazing marriage. There was a mutual respect. We two people who without professional counseling and without models for lasting relationships, were in it to win it. Though we were both raised in situations rife with substance abuse, neither of us had heard the term, “trauma-bonding.” We found a way, for a while, to be a team. But when I turned those SPIN checks into other checks, and then jobs, I could see, however blurry, the end of the relationship. I became a prepper, stacking chips for being on my own again. But one almost always stays too long. Hoping. Screaming.

I’m thinking about those times because I’m avoiding working on an essay about Oakland that is breaking my heart. And because these fireworks outside my door sound like the war they’re meant to. It’s the politics, yes. It’s the court cases, yes. It’s difficult to feel focused and strong, even when that is what is most required.

Today at the FedEx store, I was sending something. The guy behind the desk is familiar with me. But still, he asked if I had my ID. I’d walked there with the dog, so I didn't have anything really except my phone and dog treats. I j shrigged at him like, No, I don't.

He's Black. Sounds like he might be Ghanaian. He's maybe in his early thirties. Already has the look of somebody that works too much. They guy is kind — not just to me, but to colleagues and customers I see him interacting with. His uniform shirt is always looking clean and ironed.

He didn’t like my shrug though, about the ID. He took his fingers off the keyboard and said, "Ma'am"—like with the exclamation point at the end.

Me: "What?"

"You have to carry your ID."

I said, "Okay," but was looking at him like, I come in here all the time, you know who I am. I said I really needed to send the package.

"Ma'am," he said, and he brought his voice down low. "In these times, we need to all be carrying ID at all times." He waved his arm toward the sidewalk and the street. "They will snatch you and have you up out of here before you blink." He then continued ringing me up.

The people behind me minded their own business. Only my dog was irritated. She pulled against the leash I’d begun holding so tightly. That man who warned me: he said, “Thank you for coming to FedEx Office.”

He reminded me of the CopyMat where I’d been an employee, and where I’d printed the gray wedding invitations. The man gave me a look that demanded a promise. I gave him a nod with intention. Then walked back to my work, to rake memories, and to make money that's not going to save me from anything.

1. Trend alert: Betting on Angel Reese to lose.

2. Just what is it about a Crunch Wrap Supreme?

3. I recently made some easy blueberry syrup to add to my sparkling water. Now I’m going to try this strawberry cream.

4. I’m not doing Nelly and Ashanti again! But here’s stuff about them.

5. “A strange quality of even the worst totalitarian fascist states is that very bad things might happen to the person next to you, and your life can still continue as normal.” More, here. And more. And more. And case you’re wondering where the flowers have gone.

6. I talked to Stephen A. Smith. The Rolling Stone interview is also in the printed version, if you’re in to that kind of thing.

[thank you

Thea Wood

for posting the above from Rolling Stone’s contributor’s page.]

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in rotation, for reasons:

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In music,

Danyel

1. I write a bit about that era, here, for NPR

2. Here’s one of the columns.